Something
by Meepy
Summary: Out running errands for a man she despises, Namie comes across someones who hates him even more. — Namie, Shizuo


She feels like a fool, walking through the streets of Ikebukuro with a _shopping list_ in hand ("Namie, we're out of coffee!"). At this point, she's been subjected to nothing more than an errand runner.

_Her_, the former chief of Yagiri Pharmaceuticals, _grocery shopping_ for her employer.

It absolutely infuriates her, but—she would never, ever admit it—it's also a welcome change from the constant filing and organizing, the harsh chuckles echoing throughout his apartment and the game of chess-cards-mahjong (and whatever else) she observes him paying the utmost attention to. She doesn't understand it, but she doesn't particularly want to anyway (it's _Izaya_). What she does understand, however, is that one wrong move could bring the entire tower of pieces crashing down. But no, he'll never allow that, not on his watch. He's calculated. Like she is calculated. Only a variable completely unaccounted for, or a move beyond all expectations will interfere with his plans, whatever his plans are—but it's always like that, isn't it?

A flash of fur catches her eye for a brief second and she immediately knows that it's him. Almost as quickly as it enters her vision does it leave. She glances over her shoulder to where she believes he's headed, briefly wondering what he is doing before deciding she really doesn't care. When she turns her attention back to the streets in front of her, a distinctive figure stands before her. She stops.

She's well aware of him. The stories about the strongest man in Ikebukuro are everywhere, after all; but the stories she hears from Izaya as she tends to his wounds are a lot more common. He's definitely not hard to spot, with what can now be considered his trademark bartending uniform. She sees an almost crazed look in his eyes as he huffs, fists clenched, "Where the hell's that damn flea?"

"You are not very efficient," she comments briskly, arms folded beneath her chest. "All of the injuries he's returned home with were easily treatable."

He stares at her, eyes narrowing behind his tinted glasses. It takes a moment for him to process it, but he realizes who she is. "You should just let that bastard die," he snarls.

She hardly bats an eyelash at his harsh tone. "I would, but he signs my paycheck."

And she, too, has had the urge to end his life. But she wants her pay, and she does not want to be liable. At this point, she is 95% certain (with a 5% margin of error) that no one beyond Izaya himself wants him alive and well.

He peers around briefly, probably deeming the other man long gone, before pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket and swiftly lighting it. "Damn flea," he mutters as he brings the stick to his mouth, breathing the smoke in.

"He never stops whining, either," she adds. "If I do nothing, it would be a horribly torturous experience for me as well."

"Then if I do kill him," he points out, "you'll still lose your job."

"I am aware," she states. "But if there was nothing I could do to prevent it, then I cannot feel responsible in any way. After all, death is inevitable. His death is inevitable."

He raises an eyebrow in response.

And, she imagines, Izaya does not have many people on his will—rather, he has no will. His earnings and properties would just sit there, collecting dust. But she, on the other hand, has access to many of his "business"-related matters, and she's not afraid to dip into those funds once he's gone.

"With all of the enemies he has, it's a _wonder_ that he is not dead yet," she mutters.

"He's more like a cockroach, I guess." He chuckles lightly.

"Hm."

"Well, guess he'll live another day," he says, eyes discreetly scanning their surroundings, "gotta get back to work."

She nods in acknowledgement; as does she.

It's quiet as he takes one last drag of his cigarette, until she murmurs, almost to herself, "He is excellent at escaping death, yet terrible at living."

He blinks, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground. "Funny, isn't it?"

"It's certainly something, yes," she replies simply. Her heels dig into the discarded cigarette as she walks past the man and heads back to work.

* * *

**A/N:**

Are you happy now, KFG? I published it even though it's pointless and bad ffffffs. What is proper flow and characterization? etc.

I guess in the end it became a bit of a "Namie being hypocritical" kinda thing. I think. Or not. I don't really know.

Yeah, I don't know, I haven't touched anything DRRR related in years now so I'm sure I got a lot of stuff wrong, okay.


End file.
